Visceral
by Mrs. Witter
Summary: Lamb is frustrated.


**Disclaimer:** Nope. Not mine. Belongs to Rob Thomas and UPN.  
**Author:** Mrs. Witter  
**Pairing/Character:** Veronica, Lamb  
**Rating: **R  
**Length:** 942 words.  
**Summary:** Lamb is frustrated.  
**Spoilers:** It could fit in anywhere, really. Definitely after S1 but no mention of S2 eps, particularly.  
**Dedication:** To Sus, my loyal and lovely beta. She rocks. And to Lizzie because she doesn't ship Lamb/V per se but likes that I ship them anyway.

**Visceral **

It's the mouth. That sassy, _snarky_ (hell, is that even a word?) mouth that always has a scathing comeback ready to fire, the minute you say anything, that always gets to you.

You hate that mouth, because it annoys you and pisses you off and makes you want to reach out and wrap your fingers around that pretty little throat. It fascinates you, how quickly it works when you're around, how it turns upwards into that damn, know-it-all, infuriatingly smug smile the minute you lay eyes on her.

It horrifies you that you want that mouth, moving hotly under yours.

You know it's wrong; as cynical and fucked up as you are, even you'd never think that having the hots for an eighteen-year-old blonde number with the face of a pixie and disposition of a porcupine is right and normal.

But it's there, right under your skin (just like her), waiting for you do to something, anything to end the frustration. So it's a toss up between two choices, scratch the itch and possibly (more like surely, certainly, 100 definitely) lose vital body parts or do absolutely nothing and live with an eternal hard-on for one Veronica fucking Mars.

You growl at an underling as he passes you by a little too quickly, with a timid "hey Sheriff". You see Sachs raise an eyebrow at D'Amato in the back and the two try desperately to hold back knowing smiles. It only infuriates you more, knowing what they're thinking: _Veronica Mars is smarter than you_.

You glare particularly deathly at D'Amato (smug bastard had his hands on her not too long ago) before you slam the door to your office shut and then rest your forehead against the door for a second.

"Hello lover," you hear the breathy whisper (and the teasing jaunt underneath). You pray that you're hearing things again.

It appears that the deity you're not sure you believe in is on your side today, because when you turn Veronica is posed provocatively on your desk and she vanishes the minute you blink and shake your head. Still, the fact that she's in your head, like that, brings you no solace.

You sit at your desk and close your eyes, trying to regroup when the hallucinations start up again.

"Still here, Officer," she chirps. You open your eyes warily and now she's perched on the edge, facing you. Her legs spread a little and the tiny black skirt she's wearing hitches up her thighs. In spite of yourself, you glance down to see the flash of cotton between her legs.

Cursing, you rub your temples. "Go the fuck away."

"What's that?" she asks and you are seriously reconsidering your stance on seeing a therapist. "You want to fuck?"

Jesus Christ, you are really sick. You've seen the way this disease works, seen firsthand the men who would fall to their knees for this little annoyance. No matter the status, there is a town full of guys lusting after her: the Kane kid, Logan Echolls, one of your own deputies and that punk Weevil.

And you're the fucking Sheriff.

"You know Sheriff," she stated coyly as one bare foot trails up your inner thigh. This can't be happening, you tell yourself, you can't actually be aroused by the feeling of her toes against your uniform slacks. "I think that can be arranged."

You run a hand through your hair, your breathing is ragged. "This is not real. _Not real_."

She leans forward, a wicked smile on her face and you can see down the vee of her shirt as her breasts push together. You've seen bigger, touched and tasted better and yet those small perky breasts look just about perfect to you. Your hands itch to reach forward, to feel them soft against your palm.

Fuck, you're hard for an apparition.

Her hand replaces her foot and she slowly cups your crotch and it's just about all you can do not to come in your pants like a fucking schoolboy.

"I don't know, Lamb," she whispers softly, her eyes gleaming with knowledge. "This seems pretty real to me."

"Goddamn it!"

She laughs now, low and sultry, and you know this can't be real because no matter what they say about Veronica Mars, she's not the epitome of every man's naughty schoolgirl fantasy. And there is no way she would ever seduce you in your office. Nevertheless, her hand creeps up your stomach and then her fingers splay against your chest, and the blood pumps through your veins and you can't deny that part is very real.

"You know, if you really want me," she whispers conspiratorially, her lips pouting slightly as she does so, "all you have to do is ask."

_If only it were that easy_, you think as you close your eyes. This time, when you open your mouth, your voice holds a slightly desperate tone that you detest. "Please, go away."

"Uh…okay." The voice is not feminine and definitely not Veronica. Your eyes open to see Sachs standing at the door, looking a little put out. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder and shrugs. "But you might want to hear what this guy has to say, chief."

"I'll be there in a minute," you grit through your teeth. When Sachs leaves, you try to think of anything but Veronica Mars cupping your crotch in her tiny hands; try to will away the hard-on so you don't give your department something to talk about for years to come.

"You can try all you want, Deputy," the Veronica-in-your-head teases, laughing. "I'm under your skin."

You fucking hate to know she's right.

**The End**


End file.
